


Love Game

by justlikeabaroness



Series: Folie à Deux [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Blood, Consensual Non-Consent, Knifeplay, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Safewords, Smut, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7505749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/justlikeabaroness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shangri-La Hotel is arguably Dalian’s best, where the visiting dignitaries stay, the best drug deals are made, and the best parties are held. It pulses with activity at every hour, with voices heard in every hallway and every staff member constantly moving.</p><p>It is the last place in the city anyone would ever think to find a crime scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Game

**Author's Note:**

> I blame that damn W Korea photoshoot and a specific tumblr user for this. <3

The Shangri-La Hotel is arguably Dalian’s best, where the visiting dignitaries stay, the best drug deals are made, and the best parties are held. It pulses with activity at every hour, with voices heard in every hallway and every staff member constantly moving.

It is the last place in the city anyone would ever think to find a crime scene.

Kim Minseok is nothing if not daring, if not subtle. He’s a mild-mannered South Korean tourist to everyone who matters, smiling blandly as he pushes his circular glasses up the bridge of his nose with the short, shy movement of a knuckle. He passes himself off as an earnest young medical student during the day, always ready with a smile and advice, even helping once to save a man who went into anaphylactic shock during dinner.

At night, when he can be himself, he is very different.

He unlocks the door of his room after a pleasant dinner, having talked with a young mother and her husband very knowledgeably about the current state of pediatric spinal surgery in his country. The young man is exactly where he has left him - tied to the ladder-back chair, chin resting against his chest, arms bent behind his body grotesquely as his weight falls forward, pulling his wrists so hard Minseok wonders if they are broken.

He surveys the unconscious boy now. He’s pleased to see that the jagged gash bloodying the young man’s corn-colored hair has ceased to bleed, and he lets his fingers catch the barest ends of bloody strands, as if petting a dog, but thinks better of the metaphor.

He inspects the cuts on Luhan's arms and hands, once he’s sure the head wound is stable. He's stuck on Luhan's surprisingly rough fingers, the calluses on the boy's hands from what's likely years of piano. Minseok is taking his time with those hands, though. A microscopic cut at the apex of the fingerprint. A paper-cut-like scratch bisecting the knuckle. A deeper gash near the bottom of the nail bed, close enough to where it will sting and itch and crawl under the perfect skin. He wants to cut that finger off, but that much blood might have consequences.

When Luhan wakes, Minseok is ready. The boy opens his mouth to scream, and Minseok immediately jams a kumquat-sized wad of cloth inside, harvested from ripping off the bottom of the boy’s fancy white Dior shirt. It hits the back of Luhan’s throat like a rent boy’s dick, and he coughs and chokes before going silent. He doesn’t struggle when his mouth is taped shut, just staring with those deer eyes wide and pupils spread open in what Minseok imagines is terror.

It arouses him.

He smiles, that slightly ridiculous crooked grin that has been the only thing to disarm anyone he's ever tried to sweet-talk. "Hello," Minseok says in Korean, because that's _his_ language, and his Mandarin is shit at this point anyway. "I'm sorry for the rough treatment. But I don't think you would have come quietly if I said I wanted to talk to you about why you left Seoul."

Oh, it's like old times; Luhan's facial expressions are still incredibly vivid, still able to show his entire being without any verbal speech. Both eyebrows jump high on his face, though they come down hard as fear battles with what Minseok guesses is anger, shock and confusion. Sounds that seem like they would be incoherent even without the gag can be heard, and Minseok just smiles. "I'm sure it was work, right?" His tone is casual, not even conspiratorial; there's nothing to tease out via interrogation or otherwise. "Promotion? Better opportunity in China?"

He's actually somewhat impressed when the boy has the moxie to nod. He's still terrified; Minseok can damn near smell it, but he's still got some fight. Good. "At least you're honest," he says, looking down, ignoring Luhan's eyes and muffled whimpers of pain as he desperately tries to move his arms into a position that won't break them. "If you'd been fucking honest when you left, we might not be here right now."

He lifts Luhan's chin with two fingers, looking into the deep eyes, the color of a burnt-out fire. "And even if you didn't like me," Minseok says, grabbing his switchblade, feeling the decorated bone handle like a family heirloom, "you didn't have the decency to tell me. You just ran." The grip is heavy in his hand. "You were literally there one day and gone the next. That's ... impolite."

But, he's a reasonable man, and he figures he should at least pretend to listen to the inevitable pleas for absolution. So instead of slicing into that smooth cheek, he grabs at it instead and peels the tape off. "If you scream," Minseok says matter-of-factly, "I _will_ slit your throat, and I'll probably enjoy it. Do you understand?"

It's a few seconds before Luhan's head shakily bobs a yes, and it's almost enough for Minseok to keep the gag in. "I mean it." He pricks Luhan's cheek with just the point of the blade, enough to draw a splinter of blood and a soft cooing sound. But he makes the boy open his mouth, and takes out the wad of fine linen. Then he waits for the excuses to start.

They come slowly, just like Luhan himself. His voice is quiet, shaky, scared to wake the sleeping monster. "I never intended to hurt you."

"Intent isn't _magic._ " Minseok's tone is sharper and quieter than he intended it to be. He advances, standing over the boy, eyes not even angry, just reproachful, tone simply bored. "What did you think was going to happen? You thought I wouldn't care? That I'd forget?"

Luhan can't seem to speak; tears are burning in his eyes and his breath is hot and fast as if he's about to come. "I'm sorry." He says again, voice low, breath raspy. But it isn't apologetic, it's a challenge. "I didn't want to leave you. I love you. It just happened."

Luhan doesn't expect the slap, but it's real, lolling his head to one side from the force. "Don't insult my intelligence." Minseok's voice is calm, and he brings the knife up into Luhan's field of vision. "Your excuses are bullshit, and it makes me angry." He emphasizes his words with sly pricks - the apex of the blade touching the boy's neck, the collarbone, perilously close to the carotid.

He feels a surge of adrenaline hit his stomach, lungs, groin, knees when Luhan lets out a noise somewhere between terror and arousal. Minseok grabs the boy by the hair, jerking his long neck backward until it's fully exposed, hissing into Luhan's ear. "I'm going to be nice and let you die before you die." He chuckles a little at his pun - orgasm is ‘the little death,’ after all - he's always had a flair for the dramatic, but also for the dorky.

He expects to hear nothing, or maybe more fear, but instead, a word he knows. "Ow. Okay, opera. I'm sorry." Luhan is smiling a little now, though there are real tears in his eyes, and blood welling at the side of his mouth. "I'm sorry. But I'm going to say the safe word when I think my arm is going to dislocate. People will ask questions."

"Fine." He grinds the word out against unwilling teeth, and it irritates him more. By definition, sadists don't like it when their partners ask for pain to stop. It takes Minseok more than a few minutes to drop character, and it's always hard. But he loves this man, and for him, he tries. It helps to dream up a scenario where he’s been hurt; left, cheated on, abandoned - but sometimes the scenario sticks. 

Eventually he manages, "That would be bad." Seeming robot hands help Luhan sit back in the chair, untying his arms and letting him readjust them to sit in front of him before tying his hands together again. Minseok ties his lover to the chair, arms at his sides, pulling the rope just a bit too tightly.

Luhan seems to be able to tell that he's still fucked in the head, though, and cocks his to one side. "You here?" he asks, managing a bloodied smile. "It's me. It's us. Remember?"

Hearing Lu's voice calmed, and even relaxed, helps. "Yeah. I'm sorry." Minseok smiles back. "You know how it goes." Luhan has seen him at his worst, and gotten off on it. "It takes me a minute to get back to ... well, me." Even now, the lingering traces of the emotion he'd called up, the strength and the want to backhand the man he loves, they're still in his head. It's not something he's very comfortable with, even though he has enthusiastic permission to do just that. He doesn’t fear when he’s himself. He fears when he isn’t sure who he might be.

"It's okay." Luhan smiles. He tucks his chin, trying to wipe the blood off the corner of his mouth. He's a submissive with appearances to keep; he does have a boss to answer to. But he trusts Minseok to fuck him up _just_ enough, and that's not something Minseok wants to lose. "Want to ... " He trails off, but the invitation is unmistakable, and Minseok laughs.

He picks up the knife by its bony handle, grabbing Luhan's hair and pulling his neck backward again, running the blade lightly over the boy's pale skin. Instead of opening his throat with the blade, Minseok starts pressing kisses to the exposed neck. He feels the sharp shivering under him, and smirks, murmuring, "I always knew you were a sub, but this is just masochism." 

Instead of a reply, he gets a soft moan, able to slip through doors that are rapidly closing again. Minseok adds a bit of teeth, kneading the skin with sharp canines, but not enough to break it. He wants to cause pain, not leave marks. He pulls Luhan’s hair once, hard, other hand dropping the switchblade and wrapping around the part of Luhan’s neck that his mouth isn’t trailing over. “I’m being nice,” he murmurs, smirking, but there’s darkness in his tone so deep even he recognizes it. 

“Y-yes.” The shaky acquiescence comes slowly, but it’s not shaky for lack of conviction, and Minseok knows it. 

He readjusts, letting Luhan’s head drop forward, hearing the gurgled attempt to breathe in as his right hand tightens more around his lover’s windpipe. He looks down, once, twice, mockery in his eyes, before reaching for the blade again. “You’re a whore,” he says, trying to sound as disinterested and bored as he could. “You deserve this.” 

He sees the dirty dark eyes catch the outline of the blade, and make a conscious decision. “I don’t,” Luhan’s voice comes strong for a moment. “I - I really don’t. You’re being unfair.”

That earns a hard slap to the face, and a mirthless laugh forced out equally powerfully. “Don’t sass me. You’ll regret it. You little whore.” He holds Luhan’s gaze for half a second, but goes on eyefucking the boy long after he’s cringed away. Minseok grabs Luhan’s starched white collar, and holds the blade just underneath. “I could so easily kill you,” he muses, but instead of slicing into skin, Minseok cuts off one shirt button, in one confident motion. Luhan audibly gasps.

It gets him hard. “You don’t think so?” The blade is in Luhan’s shirt now, traveling over hilly skin to the next button. It’s off in an instant. “Right now?” 

Luhan doesn’t reply; his eyes are closed and he’s shivering, shaking visibly, body arched forward as if to invite the knife. Minseok takes his time with the third button, sawing through it (though not strictly necessary), just so the boy can feel steel next to his skin, feel his body temperature warming the metal to make it easier to stick inside him. “I think I could kill you,” he says again. 

“Don’t.” 

Lu’s voice wavers, and Minseok kneels in front of him, opening the shirt. “Should I hurt you?” He always asks, even if it’s cliche, even if it’s paranoid. He _always_ asks. 

“Yes.” The answer is always the same, but this time there’s more in it; impatience, frustration, a hint of exasperation? Luhan lifts up his gaze, bloodied and hungry. Minseok feels anger in his throat.

He attacks with bared teeth, going right for the spots he knows make his lover feel the most pain and whimper the loudest. Right below the navel. The inside of the left wrist. His lips travel up and around the muscle and bone, making him rise to his feet to inhale more greedily, settling briefly on the hollow at the intersection of collarbones, breathing in Lu’s scent. 

One hand finds Luhan’s neck again and squeezes, hard, hard enough to stifle moaning and feel the boy straining for air. The other manages, with numb and deadened fingers, to unzip Luhan’s trousers and feel inside. His erection is straining, and feeling it turn his fingers warm gets Minseok just as hard. He shrugs off his shirt, and makes quick work of his inconvenient trousers. 

He stops abruptly, though, causing Luhan’s eyes to open, and his face to contort in something like anguish. But Minseok makes a change in their plans, untying the ropes that hold Luhan to the chair, laughing when the boy tumbles face first to the floor, knees knocking painfully as he winds up in a bowing position. “Come on, whore,” he taunts, “it’s better this way.” He kneels again, making sure his switchblade is within reach as he strips Luhan from behind, getting his trousers off to leave him naked and bound. He leaves his lover’s hands tied, which results in Lu straining to reach as Minseok starts to pleasure him roughly.

He’s not gentle; he never is, and between the biting and the firm, angry hand job, Lu starts whimpering, a haphazard collection of sounds in Mandarin and Korean. Minseok wants him to forget his Mandarin, so he bites harder. He stops the hand job, though; he has better ideas, especially since he knows Lu prepared.

He brought his own lube, but the name of this game is pain. So he uses the bare minimum, and without any warning starts to stretch his lover open. Luhan immediately arches hard into Minseok’s fingers, eyes slammed shut, mouth open, all but panting. Not for the first time, Minseok feels strange; a jumbled, shaken-not-stirred cocktail of mockery and pity, watching his elegant and charming love whine and beg. A sharp chaser of anger tears through the fuzzy sensation, though, and he scratches hard down Luhan’s back as he slicks himself, punctuating the ends of his words with digs into Luhan’s smooth skin. “If you ever really leave me,” Minseok murmurs into Luhan’s ear, shocked at his own vehemence, “I will kill you.” He angles himself inside Lu, moving slow enough not to hurt himself, but fast enough to cause pain. 

He isn’t sure at this point whether Lu knows what he’s doing when he shakes his head no hard, once, twice, three times; it isn’t in Lu’s nature to be effusive or sappy. But Lu is shivering and tight and feels _amazing_ and Minseok has nothing so much as equilibrium when he thinks about how they’re exactly where they should be.

Their fucking is slow but hard, with Minseok taking his time and exploiting every trick he knows to make Luhan suffer as much as he wants. It’s paying off in multiple ways, with his own head foggy and buzzed, and Lu’s back starting to turn red, and the endless stream of begging he can only dimly hear as Lu pushes back into him. It makes him feel accomplished. 

However, he realizes, Lu shouldn’t be pushing back. Adjusting to his knees, Minseok reaches over, grabbing his lover’s hair and yanking his head backward again, hoping he’s made those wooden eyes water. “Don’t. Fight.” He punctuates each word with a snap of the hips, wincing when the friction gets to him, but only pushing harder, to take it out on Luhan. “If you fight, I will cut you.” He has no right. Not in this relationship. 

“Y - yes - “ Lu sounds drunk on pain and arousal, lowering his head like a beaten dog, but still pushing back deliberately against Minseok, arching his back to take him deeper. 

Minseok reacts like lightning, picking up the blade before he knows he has it in hand and slashing a short, sharp boomerang across Luhan’s lower back. It only seems to break the top layer of skin; there’s blood, but just enough, drops rather than rivers. It almost looks like a Hangul K - ㄱ - K for Kim. Lu howls in pain so delicious it seems to consume everything around them both, and his arms fail him as he comes, elbows hitting the floor and head hanging. 

The last thing he remembers before his own orgasm is relief, and he lets a leaden hand fall over the gash on Lu’s back, wanting to feel the blood on his hands before he can feel totally sated.

It takes a few minutes more before either of them moves, and when they do, it’s by inches; Minseok unties Luhan’s arms and helps him lay gently on his side. He doesn’t apologize for anything he’s done; but he does take his bloody hand and stroke Lu’s cheek, closing his eyes for a kiss that still has fear behind it. 

Lu doesn’t say anything, just kissing back, firm and breathless, blood smears on his cheeks making his doe eyes bigger and more shell-shocked and worthy of guarding with life itself. He curls his body into Minseok’s, right there on the floor. If he was angry, if Minseok had gone too far, he would speak up; his silence is a sign that he’s gone from needy and desperate to sore and contented. Minseok still wants to beg him not to leave, because what is this bright creature doing slumming it like this? But he doesn’t say anything, because that would ruin everything, and he’s happy here, with the blood smears, bodily fluids, tears and sweat. There are worse places to feel like home.


End file.
